


The Truth is in Your Face

by Face_of_Poe



Series: The Element of Surprise [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Brief Sexual Content, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, dubious professional ethics, inconvenient interruptions, what are these things called feels?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 16:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13791795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: As tended to be the case with life-altering revelations, the timing of this one was particularly inconvenient.





	The Truth is in Your Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aidennestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/gifts), [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts).



> The 2nd round prompt-exchange challenge with dreamlittleyo and aidennestorm, I was challenged by aidennestorm to use the following:  
> -promise  
> -night  
> -reserve  
> -message 
> 
> Enjoy!

As tended to be the case with life-altering revelations, the timing of this one was particularly inconvenient.

Granted, given the number of ongoing violations of the uniform code, the potential for inconvenience was probably higher all along than Washington cared admit.

Okay, if he’s being honest with himself, there’s really _no_ convenient time to have his fingers buried in his chief science officer’s ass while said science officer groans and arches and pulls at the ropes securing his arms behind his back, but here they are, so.

The sound of Washington’s free hand cracking across Hamilton’s ass and upper thighs and his barked order to, “Be good; hush,” nearly drown out the computer’s alert.

“Commander Hamilton?”

Washington freezes, can feel as much as see Hamilton’s effort to ground himself back into the present. He sucks in a deep breath and twists his face out of the sheets, and says with impressive composure, “Go ahead, computer.”

“Incoming message from Commodore von Steuben; your eyes only.”

Washington taps Hamilton’s hip in warning, and then carefully withdraws his fingers, surprise and concern warring within. Why a flag officer should be communicating directly with _his_ subordinate without so much as a courtesy _by-your-leave_ …

“I’ll take it in my quarters in five,” Hamilton tells the computer after the slightest pause.

Washington turns away to clean his hand, and by the time he’s spun back, Hamilton has extracted his wrists from the ropes.

The captain can’t decide if he’s impressed or insulted. “Do you know what - ?”

“I’ve got to go,” Hamilton tells him, all business, a mild flush to his cheeks the only remaining evidence of their indiscretions as he dresses and brushes sweaty hair off his forehead.

“Hamilton…”

He stops two steps from the door and turns, brow cocked – more curious than challenging, but Washington knows that could change in an instant. A delicate moment, for there’s no delusion between them about Washington’s authority here - their professional dynamic stops the moment Hamilton enters this room. 

It’s not Hamilton’s sudden departure from his _bed_ that has his brows creasing though, but rather, activities ongoing aboard his _ship_ without his knowledge.

The moment stretches on before Hamilton takes pity on his dilemma. “I’ll be in touch, sir.” 

He swallows and nods. “Carry on, Commander.”

 

x---x

 

Because he’s a consummate professional, when he’s not letting his captain work him over, Hamilton tells the ranking bridge officer about his immediate departure, requests an appropriate vessel, and then leaves Commander Schuyler to update their off-duty captain.

In the end, Washington beats Hamilton to the hangar, but Hamilton looks unsurprised to see him there as he marches in with a carefully packed ruck and donning a uniform that belongs to a whole different corner of Starfleet.

“So,” he glances over the monochrome gray vestments, devoid of any decoration or rank that could serve as identifiers. “Special Ops, huh?”                                            

Hamilton shrugs, chagrined. “Reserve.”

“No one told me.”

“We’re kinda big on that whole _need to know_ thing.” His tone isn’t snide, but he winces and forces an apologetic smile. “Obviously this is the first I’ve been mobilized since being stationed here, I’m not exactly in high demand out here in the far-reaches.”

He can’t decide if something in Hamilton has changed, or if it’s just Washington’s perception. “At the risk of sounding condescending or dismissive…”

“What use is a science officer to special op forces?” Hamilton grins, and then leans up to whisper hot next to Washington’s ear, “You should know better than anyone, sir – I’m good with tongues.” And he slips away. “I’ll be back in three days.”

“Promise?” The word slips out quite without his permission.

Hamilton glances over his shoulder, eyes dancing wickedly. “You got it bad, huh?” 

“You know how Angelica gets when she has to reconfigure the bridge rotations.”

_Smooth, George._

 

x---x

When Hamilton returns – three days later, practically to the hour – Washington is on duty as he reports to the bridge. “Right on time, Commander,” Washington commends, looking him over as he stands stiff at attention. “Commodore von Steuben told us to expect you.”

“As I said, sir -”

“ _Mostly_ in one piece.”

Hamilton huffs out a resigned chuckle and slumps out of his rigid posture. “It’s about ninety-five percent exhaustion, Captain.”

“And the other five?”

A sharp grin. “Classified.” 

Washington waves him off. “Away with you – go see Laurens in medical. Don’t argue,” he preempts the objection brewing in his eyes. “I’ll check in with you tonight.” 

“We’re in space, Captain, there _is_ no _night_ , only social constructs per Earth’s orbital cycles and the human species’ biological -”

“ _Go_.”

 

x---x

 

When he returns to his quarters, he expects to see Hamilton, though finding him sitting naked in the middle of the bed, eyes closed, with his wrists bound behind his back is a pleasant enough surprise. “You get yourself in there?” he asks, admiring the knots, and then amends: “I _hope_ you got yourself in there.” A lazy smile touches Hamilton’s lips as Washington traces the edges of a few purple bruises on his face and chest. “Laurens give you anything for those?”

“Hm.”

“You _use_ it?”

An eye cracks open, all mischief. “Thought you might like the honors.”

“Oh.” _Oh_.

So he takes the ointment off the bedside shelf and rubs some carefully into discolored flesh, and then urges him around onto his stomach and applies some liberally on his back. “Be honest now; how many ways could you kill me without moving off the bed?”

Hamilton twists around and grins up at him best he’s able. “Classified.” Washington swats his hip. “Does that bother you?”

He spent three days wondering just that. “I don’t think so.” Pause. “I like that you trust me like this.”

“I wouldn’t trust you like this if I didn’t trust you everywhere else.”

Washington feels his expression soften, but Hamilton’s already face-down in the pillow again.

As tended to be the case with life-altering revelations, though – this one’s quite inconvenient.


End file.
